


The Storc Brought Him

by LiveOakWithMoss, TheLionInMyBed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A child's guide to Lamarkian inheritance, Adoption, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, New Family, Orcs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Terrible Twos, adorable and otherwise, almost entirely unironically, chainmail onesies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: some unexpected discoveries are significant enough to change the course of history. Some just gnaw on your finger and keep you up all night. (some are both)





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

> ['for a moment i thought it was bb ereinion who had the fangs and went “shit did they adopt an orc”' - Simaethae](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com/post/160627978722/simaethae-replied-to-your-post-it-was-the)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _look what you did_

Another day, another battlefield, scattered with the cooling corpses of friend and foe alike. 

More foes than friends, by a factor of ten or more, Maedhros noted with grim satisfaction. But his people bred slowly, if at all in times of war, while orcs multiplied like rabbits in the warrens under Angband. 

He was cleaning his sword upon the rank pelt of a dead warg when the wailing began. No war cry, this, and not a moan of pain or fear. It was a sound that had no place upon a battlefield, a sound he had not heard in years.

It was a baby.

The shock of it was enough that, when Fingon came to stand beside him, resplendent in silver chased armour and the blood of his foes, Maedhros did not step instantly into his arms. "Do you hear-?"

"Yes!" said Fingon, and set off in the direction of the sound, picking his way between the bodies of the fallen. 

They found him clutched to the breast of a warrior's corpse, tightly swaddled in a sling. At the sight of them, the child wailed harder, waving fat little fists in the air. 

The fists were grey and each small finger was tipped with an even smaller talon. Maedhros was not sure what he had been expecting - a Secondborn babe stolen in a raid? - but in hindsight, it should not have been surprising. 

Even less surprising than that was the alacrity with which Fingon snatched the child up into his arms. 

"Who's a little baby? Who's the roundest little potato?" the Crown Prince cooed, and the baby, demonstrating excellent taste if nothing else, immediately quietened. 

"Certainly he's grubby enough." Filthy as a tuber and just as round, with chubby little cheeks, eyes that dimpled at the corners and wisps of fine hair upon his bald head. Although Curufin would surely not appreciate the comparison, Maedhros could not help thinking back to his nephew, the last child he had been suffered to hold. But Celebrimbor had been quiet and thoughtful even at this age, while this babe was already babbling and gurgling as Fingon tickled him under the chin. 

"There's an argument to be made for keeping it," Maedhros said slowly. "We don't fully understand the nature of the Enemy's corruption of our people. If we raise the child, away from His foul influence, we may better comprehend-"

Fingon bounced the baby in his arms and rolled his eyes. "Do you want to hold him?"

"...Yes."

* * *

"There are many families who'd be happy to raise him," Maedhros said, a long ride, a bath and a change of clothes later. He did not say it with any certainty which, given the little potato had spent the majority of that ride in Maedhros' arms, wrapped snugly in his cloak, wasn't surprising.

Fingon, who had already accepted his fate, nodded and poured another ewer of water over the baby's head. "No doubt. "

"But we would have to make the risks clear. It would be dangerous. It might not work. They can't become attached."

"It would be better then, would it not, if we took the risk?" Fingon prodded, scrubbing the grime from one long, grey ear. "We should ask nothing of our people that we fear to do ourselves." 

Maedhros snorted and flicked water at him and then, more gently, at the baby. "Don't bother manipulating me. He's doing a good enough job of it himself." Indeed, the baby splashed back, palms slapping flat against the water, sending up a silver shower of bubbles and making Maedhros laugh. Not for long though - his laughter never did last long enough. "You don't know what He did to him," he said, white teeth stark and sharp as he bit at his lower lip. 

"It doesn't matter what was done," Fingon said firmly and, rather pointedly, kissed him to make him stop fussing. "Not to me. What  _ is _ important is scrubbing this little potato clean. We could grow crops to feed half Barad Eithel in the dirt behind these ears." Fingon wondered if this was his first bath ever - certainly the first to feature warm water, rose-scented bubbles and a bewildering array of bath toys pilfered from who knew where. But that road led back to the battlefield and the bodies of the boy's real parents and Fingon dragged himself back to the present and dragged a pearl-encrusted model octopus out of the little orc's mouth. 

Maedhros' arm came up around his shoulders, warm and sure, and Fingon leant against him while the baby -  _ their _ baby if they were going to be honest - tried to eat a handful of bubbles in lieu of the octopus.

"We need to think of a proper name for him," Maedhros said later, after they'd put the child down to sleep in a cradle improvised from a bureau draw. He looked ready to fall asleep himself, right there on the hearthrug beside the dresser, and Fingon was inclined to join him. "We can't keep calling him a potato."

"I thought of one," said Fingon, giving into temptation and curling up beside him, head tucked neatly beneath his jaw. 

Sleepily, Maedhros tucked a stray braid back behind Fingon's ear. "Mm?" 

"Ereinion. Scion of Kings."

“Your father would love that.”

“So would yours.”


	2. Uncles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ereinion meets the most important people in his life. According to them, anyway.

Fingon glanced sideways at his father. Fingolfin was wound tight as a hound tethered before the hunt but with more agony in his eyes.    
  
Fingon grinned at him. "What bothers you more, that he's surrounded by Fëanorions or that he's half one himself?" He didn't add the third option; it went without saying that it pained them both to see Ereinion meeting Maedhros' siblings when he had not - might never - meet Fingon's.    
  
"I feel the same way I did every time I saw you surrounded by them growing up," said Fingolfin, twisting the signet ring on his finger. "Only worse. You were bigger than he is and they were smaller then. Less bloodied, too."   
  
"Both his parents are kinslayers," said Fingon. "And he came to us on a battlefield. A little bit of blood will not faze him."   
  
"You have an odd way of reassuring an old man,"  Fingolfin muttered. "Oh, help, they're going to drop him!"   
  
"Maedhros is there," said Fingon, with a surety that Fingolfin had never quite comprehended. "He would eat any one of them before allowing harm to come to a single scale on Ereinion's head. Only joking, he has no scales, we checked," he added, seeing Fingolfin's expression. "Also Huan is watching and he might be even more devoted a defender of the small than Maedhros is."   
  
"If you say so," said Fingolfin, as Celegorm tossed a crowing Ereinion into the air. "But if he goes splat..."   
  
"Our little star will never fall," said Fingon, watching Ereinion get caught up in his uncle's sunburned arms.  "We would die before we let that happen."

  
  
-   
  


"He has Fingon's hair," said Maglor, touching a curl. "Somehow."   
  
"Did you graft it?"  Curufin asked with interest, looking for sutures. "Or I suppose it could be genetic, given how many Noldor ended up warped in Angb-" He grunted as Celegorm shoved an elbow into his stomach and scooped the baby away.   
  
"He may have Fingon's hair but he's got your eyes, Nelyo," said Celegorm, jogging Ereinion against his shoulder while his nephew grabbed for his long braid. "Enough to make a man piss his drawers of a dark night." He cooed as Ereinion stuffed the white plait into his mouth. "You're going to be a terror, aren't you? Aren't you, my beauty?"    
  
"Thlth," said Ereinion, and Celegorm carefully plucked a death's head bead out of his mouth.   
  
"Sounded like Father just then, he did."   
  
"Is he talking yet? Crawling? Does he have object permanence? When Tyelperinquar was this age - "   
  
"I shat on the robes of the Vanyarin ambassador," said Celebrimbor. "Mother used to howl over that story. Stop putting me in retroactive competition with an infant, Father."   
  
"I'd never. You would win, anyway, you were a prodigy at blocks."   
  
"Ereinion is excellent at blocks,"  Maedhros rumbled. "Stop throwing him around like that, he'll get sick."   
  
Maglor intercepted Ereinion and cradled him in his arms, studying his face intently. "What stories could you tell, little one," he murmured. "What histories do you bear?"   
  
"He bears the history of having put a divot in my fingerbone," said Caranthir, waving it in front of him. "Warble me a song of that tragedy, brother."   
  
Maglor didn't look up but began to rock Ereinion as he sang. _"_ _ You went out walking one morning in spring / and saw your fine nephew, the scion of kings / you dangled your fingers and said something odd / and the next thing we knew he was chewing one off. " _   
  
"Best thing you've written," said Celegorm, applauding.    
  
"Orf!" said Ereinion, staring up into Maglor's face.    
  
"Is babe-speech like beast-speech?" asked Celebrimbor, settling cross-legged on the floor as Maglor sat on the divan. Ereinion was reaching for his earrings but Maglor evaded his grasp. "Can you talk to little ones like you talk to the wild things?"   
  
Celegorm stretched out on the rug. "It's not so different," he acknowledged. "More gestural, more intuitive than Elf-talk, a simpler vocabulary and all. But Oromë was dead set against us hunting and eating babies, so it's not like we got instruction in that specifically - "   
  
"I am the only one who gets to eat this child," said Fingon, descending on the group around the divan. "It's been  _ minutes _ since I've held him, I've been  _ pining _ . I must eat his little toesies." He sat beside Maglor who obligingly slid his arms beneath Fingon's to pass the bundle. Maedhros leaned over the back of the divan, his left hand settling on Fingon's shoulder, and Fingolfin sighed from across the room.   
  
"A sweet scene," he said mistily, and squinted so that he could blur out the Fëanorions arranged within it. 


	3. Wabbit

“Why is he crying?” Maedhros looked into the crib with a level of concern usually only reserved for sieges and stubborn corks. “I thought the bonnet usually comforted him, is it pinching his ears?”

“It’s not the bonnet,” said Fingon, who had dark shadows under his eyes - for once, he and Maedhros were matching in this regard. “It’s Wabbit. He killed it by accident.”

“Wabbit?”

“His stuffed goblin,” said Fingon. “He loves his toys and he loves biting things and when they combine…” He gestured helplessly to the small felt head that had rolled under the crib.

“Clearly what he needs is sturdier toys,” said Maedhros, dangling his arm over the edge for his inconsolable son to chew on between sobs. 

“And where do you propose we find those?”

-

“Of course I can make you a steel ducky,” said Curufin. “It will be a blessed change from the sort of toys you  _ usually _ commission from me.” He paused as he turned to make his way to the forge. “Do you want some hand-me-downs as well? I still have Celebrimbor’s chainmail onesie.”


	4. Sleep Deprivation

“I swear this little one will be the end of me. _He’s so cute_.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Maedhros. His eyes were red, a phenomenon that usually only occurred when the light was wrong. “What will our son do if you die? He’s too small to be king, the crown won’t fit-”

“He’s _so_ small,” Fingon agreed, voice decidedly wobbly. “He’s _so small_ , look at his little fingers, _look at his little talons_. What if I put him down and can’t find him?” Ereinion squirmed in his father’s tightening embrace and stuffed one of his unravelling braids into his mouth, the gold beads chiming against his tiny fangs. “What if he gets out again?”

It was some ungodly hour of the morning and their son had chewed his way out of his crib, rolled down a flight of stairs - he had landed unharmed thanks to some combination of orcish heritage and his chainmail onesie - and been crawling determinedly towards the armoury before they intercepted him.

“What will _I_ do if you die? Fingon, _promise me you’re not going to die._ ” In lieu of clutching at Fingon and risking harm to the baby, Maedhros clutched Wabbit the Stuffed Goblin VII to his chest so tightly that the seams gave a warning creak.

“But he’s _really small_ ,” Fingon wailed and burst into tears.

“When was the last time either of you slept?” said Lalwen from the doorway.

Her nephews stared at her blearily. Ereinion drooled. Wabbit VII’s head lolled alarmingly as the stitches began to give.

“Stop crying and mutilating stuffed toys and go to bed,” she said and managed, on the third attempt, to pry Ereinion from Fingon’s arms and Fingon’s braids. “I’ll watch the little monster for a few hours.”


	5. Portraits

"What," said Maedhros Fëanorion, Lord of Himring, in tones of purest venom, "is _this?"_

Camaeneth held her palette between them in lieu of a shield. "It's only a preliminary sketch, my lord." She _knew_ she shouldn't have taken the warts and all approach, should have left off the worst of the scarring and the fangs or asked for a pose that did not make the missing hand so obvious.

But it was not her sketch of himself that had drawn the lord's attention and his ire. "I can see that. What I cannot see is your reasoning in depicting your crown prince so disrespectfully."

She followed the gesture of his prosthetic to her sketch of the prince upon his throne, his son in his lap and his husband looming over them like some grim spectre. She considered his cloak of rich furs, the crown upon his head and the jewels and his fingers and in his ears, the sleek cascade of his hair, the bright eyes and strong determined jaw. "I intended no disrespect."

"Fingon is at least twice as handsome as this," Lord Maedhros said as though he were explaining something very obvious. "More handsome even than that." He checked himself with visible effort and said, more calmly, "Please, begin again."

"Don't bite her head off, dear," said the Prince in question. He was indeed very handsome but not, Camaeneth thought sullenly, any more so than she'd depicted him. "I'm sure she sketched me fairly."

"Come see," said Maedhros, scooping their son up into his arms. Ereinion had been an obedient, if not enthusiastic subject - her pots of paint and sticks of charcoal, and the ornaments in his father's hair were much too interesting for sitting still to be anything but a torment - and he went eagerly. His father's ceremonial armour discomforted him not at all and he instantly pressed his chubby cheek against a pauldron and wound his fingers in his hair.

The lord's expression instantly went soft and that, coupled with Prince Fingon's benevolent smile as he circled around to look at her canvas, let her think she might escape this sitting with her head still on after all.

But that smile flickered and died upon the prince's noble features as he saw what she had drawn.

"My prince?" she said hesitantly. "Is it meet?"

"It's very nice," he said, quite plainly enthused. "I do like how you've done my hair. And Maedhros looks... _ravishing_."

Maedhros snorted but seemed content to stay quiet and hold his son. Camaeneth bit her lip against a fit of hysterical laughter.

"It's just...The way you've drawn Ereinion," the prince went on. His hands clenched at his sides and moisture shimmered in his eyes, beading upon the dark lashes. "You've not drawn him half as adorable as he is. He's _far_ rounder than that. "


	6. Stay

Maedhros stared at the portrait on the wall. It was beautifully done, even if it fell short of reality, and it was exquisitely....domestic. Despite the jewels of state and the crowns and the throne, it sparked something deep and familial in him, something mundane and precious and -

He was foolish to think it could have lasted this long.

His stronghold waited patiently in the north, his duties piled up untended, and here he was, playing happy families with Fingon and the - and the most perfect, beautiful, warm, and sweet-smelling baby in the wide and wicked world...

What could any of it be but impermanent? He had to leave now, before it was taken from him as punishment for all he had neglected. He had to go before it became even harder to do so, had to return to the cold hill that was far more his home that these cozy quarters. He had to go before it was too late.

And yet no torment devised by the artisans of Angband could compare with the prospect of departure.

"So stay," said Fingon.

Maedhros was pacing in his traveling cloak, twisting his leather riding gloves around the stiff fingers of his right hand. He had tried to explain all this to Fingon but Fingon was being stubbornly unsympathetic. "I can't. I've already been here months longer than I planned."

"Stay," repeated Fingon. Ereinion was playing around their feet, not yet aware of Maedhros' imminent departure but glancing up every so often as their voices sharpened. Fingon drummed his fingers on his thigh, a challenge and threat in his eyes. "I could order you."

"I swore allegiance to the King, not the Crown Prince," said Maedhros, stooping to return Ereinion's stuffed goblin to him. "And it is not like I am truly the boy's father, I have no right to parental leave. My duties will not wait because my cousin found an orcling on the battlefield." His throat contracted horribly as the words came out but he found solace in the self-loathing they elicited.

Fingon's jaw tightened and Maedhros knew he would be shouting if the child wasn't there. "I could order my father to order you to stay."

"I can't," said Maedhros. He had to do it now, quickly, since Fingon was terribly persuasive when he got that savage look in his eyes. He had to do it before his resolution crumbled utterly before the combined forces of Fingon’s accusing glare and his so- Ereinion’s happy chuckles from the floor.

So he knelt and kissed Ereinion on the crown of his head, kissed his husband on the ear since Fingon had resolutely turned his face away, and strode from the hall before he or Ereinion could start wailing.

 

* * *

 

"You should have stayed," said Maglor, looking at him like he was mad.

Maedhros wiped at his eyes with a very small sock. "I couldn't."

"Of course you could, dolt. You don't think Tuluspen runs Himring without you even when you're _here_? And I can check in frequently, the Gap isn't so far." Maglor contemplated the view through the window. "Curufin and Celegorm have been in close enough quarters that they're close to a brotherslaying as it is, I am sure they will jump at a chance to take turns on brief sabbaticals to the North. And Ambarussa - " Maglor hesitated. "Well, I'll mind he's not left alone with the more sensitive soldiers. But I'm sure he'll want to help too." Maglor's expression softened as he looked down at the little knitted stocking in Maedhros' big hand. "After all, it's not often one's brother has a child."

Maedhros swallowed thickly and tried the lie. "He's not my - "

"Dolt," said Maglor again. "Pack your bags and go back to your lover and that beautiful grey gremlin the two of you produced. No arguments. The Lord of the Gap commands you."

"I outrank you."

"I'll sing," said Maglor threateningly and Maedhros rose to his feet at once.

"I'm going, I'm going." He tucked the sock into his arm guard and looked immediately like himself again. "Can you have the mistress of the mews send a letter to Fingon that - "

"I already sent it."

Maedhros nodded and clapped Maglor on the shoulder. Maglor looked pained but didn't object.

"Don't burn the place down without me," Maedhros said to Tuluspen, who had been standing by the door all the while.

"No promises, milord."

"Good chap," said Maedhros, and all but ran to the stables.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Fingon did was throw himself into Maedhros' arms.

The second thing he did was bite Maedhros' ear savagely and call him names for several minutes until Maedhros kissed him quiet.

He didn't quite apologize because he was still himself no matter how fatherhood had softened him, but he did manage a contrite look as he pulled back, Fingon still wrapped in his embrace.

"I'm here for the duration," he said, and in the spirit of honesty added, "You can thank Maglor for that."

"I'd be offended he could convince you when I couldn't, but honestly I don't care. I'll send him a fruit basket."

"What fruit is growing now?"

"Turnips, I don't know. Do I look like a florist?"

Maedhros smiled, relief fueling honest communication for another full sentence. "I missed you. I missed _him_."

"Of course you did," said Fingon fiercely. "How you could even leave in the first place - "

He looked ready to bite again so Maedhros gave him a squeeze. Armor creaked but Fingon didn't blink. "I'm here now. Until he comes of age or comes to the throne or whatever you want, I am here."

"The throne," said Fingon, tearing up. "Our little potato king."

"The _best_ potato king."

Someone coughed behind them and they both turned.

"He's up from his nap, your Highness," said the nurse, bowing low. He was holding Ereinion's blanket and a headless toy and Maedhros' heart swelled with pride at the evidence of their son's ferocity.

"Where is he?"

There was a skitter of tiny feet and scrabbly claws and Ereinion barreled into the room, trailing another nurse behind him. "Papa!" he bellowed, and then, seeing Maedhros, "DA."

Maedhros stooped and Ereinion threw himself into his arms with as much enthusiasm as Fingon had. He even chewed on Maedhros' ear a little, causing tears to start in Maedhros' eyes. His fangs were getting very sharp.

"Easy," said Fingon, gently prying him off. "Your father's tattered enough, dragonlet."

"Tat!" said Ereinion, pointing.

"I know, isn't he handsome?"

"Eee," said Ereinion, and burrowed against Maedhros' chest.

"Eeee," said Fingon, and burrowed against his other side.

Maedhros said nothing and counted his blessings.


	7. Domestic Bliss

The first few months he’d put it down to exhaustion. The stresses of childrearing certainly hadn’t slowed his own mother and father, if his interminable quantity of brothers was anything to go by, but Maedhros imagined most families accepted that less time to themselves was part of parenthood.

The habit of catching catnaps when one could was common to soldiers and new fathers both, and so neither he nor Fingon had suffered more than they could bear, but still at the end of every day they’d fall into bed together and be too tired to do anything more than curl about each other and sleep. More than once he’d had to manhandle a dozing Fingon out of his boots. More than once he woke to Fingon manhandling him out of his hand.

It should have been frustrating. Too little time together and too long apart had ensured they never let pass an opportunity to lie together. In a field tent, bloody and still shaking with the thrill of battle, or hurried fumbling afore a council meeting, fearing at every moment Fingon’s father would walk in.

And so this haze of weariness, this touching but not _touching_ should have driven them both mad.

And yet it didn’t.

That this was so first occurred to him upon a quiet evening in late autumn, as the chill was drawing in and after Ereinion had been in their care some half a year. Their son had gone to sleep with mercifully little fuss and he and Fingon had celebrated by opening a bottle of wine, collapsing onto a couch beside the fire and utterly failing to have sex.

By stretching out his leg Maedhros could just reach Ereinion’s cradle enough to set it rocking, and it took no stretching at all to draw Fingon’s legs into his lap and give him the best foot rub that could be given single-handed.

Fingon made a small, contented noise and curled his toes against Maedhros’ palm. “While you were talking to Angrod’s herald, Ereinion and I- how was that by the way?”

“Tedious.” Maedhros pressed harder with his thumb, to draw that sound from him again. “I’ll brief you later, when I’m not wearing a stained nightshirt and your slippers.”

“It’s very fetching,” Fingon said, shifting his feet so that they rested upon Maedhros’ stomach - hardly ample but likely the most comfortable part of him now he was divested of his armour.

“You were talking about Ereinion though. I know I missed his bathtime.” That had been another realisation; how little time they’d actually spent talking to each other. Though they corresponded constantly, took counsel on matters of war and state whenever they could, and found time to curse and gasp endearments near as frequently, how much time had they taken for proper conversation over the years? The mundanities and trivialities that made up a life together.

“His new favourite bath toy is the sea serpent - the one with the sapphires.”

“Good taste.”

“He still eats the bubbles. And the loofah.”

“That’s fibre at least.”

“ _You_ can change him tomorrow.”

“Gladly, if you speak to the chamberlain in my place.”

Fingon crumpled his nose up in distaste. “I’ve changed my mind. More importantly-” he paused, nose returning to its usual handsome state, and looked up slyly from beneath his lashes. “He said a new word.”

“Another? What was it?”

Kicking his feet out of Maedhros’ grip and nearly spilling his wine in the process, Fingon shifted position so that it was his head in his lap and his bare feet dangling off the couch, scuffing at the rug. “Diphthong!”

Maedhros frowned. On the one hand, their son was at the babbling stage and any number of gurgles and chirps could be mistaken for words, as was near certainly the case here.

On the other hand, the one he did not have- “He’s going to be a linguist,” he said inanely, before he could stop himself. “His grandfather would be so proud.”

“We have the _cleverest_ potato,” Fingon agreed. “The cleverest and strongest and handsomest.”

The cleverest potato gurgled and shifted in his sleep, claws digging deeper into whatever iteration of Wabbit they were up to now. In Maedhros’ lap, Fingon closed his eyes, a smile lingering upon his lips. Maedhros considered leaning down to kiss him but decided, for once, to let him sleep. They had been married, for what little the Laws and Customs counted for, near as long as they had been of age but this was the first time it felt true.


	8. Stories

“In the darkness about Arda, a little egg lay in the void.”

Ereinion squirmed in delight - this was his favourite story - and squirmed again to find a comfortable position on his father’s lap. He had taken off his armour to hold him even though Ereinion rather enjoyed tracing the tiny stars etched on his cuirass.

“One Anarya morning Laurelin blossomed and - pop! - out of the egg came a tiny and very hungry spider.”

His father’s voice was a rough, comforting rumble in his chest and Ereinion leant back against it.

“On Isilya she ate one goblin. And yet her hunger was not sated.

“On Aldúya she ate two Avari, and yet her hunger was not sated.”

Ereinion traced the shapes of the Tengwar in the book as his father turned the pages. He couldn’t read all of them himself - yet! - but he knew all the numbers and could count along.

“On Menelya she ate three stars, and yet her hunger was not sated.

“On Eärenya she ate four other foul creatures in spider form, and yet her hunger was not sated.”

“On Valanya she ate five of her own children, and yet her hunger was not sated.” Maedhros curled his own hand into an approximation of five crooked legs and Ereinion shrieked and squirmed in mock horror as he was tickled.

“On Elenya she ate Telperion, Laurelin, all the light of the Wells of Varda, all the stolen treasures of Formenos, and Great Grandfather Finwë.

“That night she was attacked by balrogs and fled in fear from their whips of flame.

“Now she wasn’t hungry anymore — and she wasn’t a little spider anymore. She was swollen to a shape vast and hideous.

“She built a small lair in the dark valley beneath Ered Gorgoroth and stayed inside for time uncounted until she retreated into the forgotten South of the world.

“The next day was Anarya again. The spider, in her uttermost famine, devoured herself at last.”

“The end!” Ereinion finished for him - that much he could read. “Another one? Please?”

His father glanced out of the nursery window, to where the very first of those stars not eaten by The Very Hungry Spider were just beginning to shine. “It’s past time you were abed.”

“But-”

“Hush, little star. You know what happens to princes that don’t mind their parents.”

“Fed to spiders,” Ereinion said sleepily, and allowed his father to tuck him in and kiss him goodnight with the bare minimum of griping.


	9. PTSD

It was the movement that woke him rather than sound. A disturbance in the air.

Maedhros did not react - it was better not to let them know he knew.

Now he was half-awake and listening for it, fighting the urge to twitch his ears towards the sound, he heard the scuff of bare feet, light upon stone tiles, and the rasp of someone trying and failing to mask their breathing.

Sheets beneath him, soft breathing beside him - Barad Eithel then and not the Pit. Which meant he had a knife beneath the pillow and a lover to defend.

The creature sprang. Maedhros felt the rush of air and reached for the blade, only to find it gone. He didn’t bother puzzling where it had gone, only pushed up to meet it, ready to cry a warning and then buy Fingon what time he could with fist and teeth.

“Papa!” cried Ereinion, flopping onto the bed. “Papa, you said you’d read to me. Tell him, Da! _Papa!_ ”

Fingon was sitting up and smiling, clearly long awake, but Maedhros could see the question in his eyes and gave him a quick nod. _He’d kill me before I hurt him._ The thought was a reassuring one and, under that certainty, Maedhros relaxed. “You did,” he agreed as Ereinion burrowed between them, carving out space in the blankets like a dwarf delving a city out of stone.

“I said I’d read _in the morning_ ,” said Fingon, leaning over to kiss his son’s forehead and take the proffered book. “Does it look like morning to you?”

“It’s light out. Almost. Anyway, my tutor said the first elves had no light but starlight and the stars are out so there.”

“We’re all awake now anyway,” said Maedhros who had long ago learnt the futility of debating with children and the benefits of being the indulgent parent, which he rarely got to be. Indeed Ereinion favoured him with a smile so bright he could not help returning it.

There were things he kept from his son and always would, but the fangs at least he did not need to hide.


	10. Coitus Interruptus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the overall rating for this fic remains teen, this chapter is undeniably mature. 
> 
> (The chapter title is a bit of a gimme there.)

“Maedhros,” murmured Fingon, his fingers stroking up Maedhros’ spine. “Come on.”

“Sh. Did you hear that?”

“It’s the wind. Come on, darling, move.”

Maedhros bent his head obediently and kissed Fingon, moving a little as Fingon dug fingers into his low back. Then: “What was that?”

Fingon groaned.

The wine had been good that night and they had flirted like courting youths over the rare private dinner. The fire had been terribly atmospheric, the bearskin rug deeply suggestive, and Fingon’s clothes swift to fall even beneath a single, fumbling hand.

It should have been romantic and satisfying and very, very needed. How many months since they had last been physically intimate? How long since Fingon had gasped beneath his questing tongue? But there were different factors at play in their world now and Maedhros, try as he might, could not seem to forget them.

“I think he’s coming,” he said, listening intently as Fingon thumped back on the pillow.

“I don’t think he is and I’m certainly not. For Eru’s sake, will you stop being paranoid and just fuck me alrea _-_ mf!”

Maedhros had put a hand over his mouth, and from the way Fingon glowered at him it was not at all in their usual erotic repertoire of physical play. “Watch your language, what if he’s listening?”

“Hmf in ugh - ” Fingon began, and then bit him until Maedhros took his hand away. “He’s in _bed_ , Maedhros, he’s not sneaking in to overhear his parents doing what parents do!”

“Fine,” said Maedhros. “Fine, you are probably right.” He shook his head, trying to draw his focus back to where it should clearly be: on his beautiful, naked husband beneath him, thighs cradling his waist, his hair tossed across the pillow as shining and glorious as the first time Maedhros had taken him. It was a stunning sight and the scowl on Fingon’s face did nothing to lessen Maedhros’ appreciation for it. He lowered his head to mouth at the new scars on Fingon’s collarbone, five divots left by a scavenging warg’s jaws, and took the opportunity to check how the punctures were healing. Fingon had slain the warg and skinned it himself after, heedless of the fresh wound on his shoulder or the jeers of circling ravens. Maedhros had found him magnificent then - bloody to the elbow with his braids bound back and his helm tossed aside, wielding a skinning knife in a truly provocative way - and equally magnificent now. He growled at the memory and nuzzled into Fingon’s throat as Fingon dragged fingers against his skull and tangled in his hair.

Maedhros’ hair was longer now than it had been in years, fine and silky and beautiful to a degree that he hadn’t thought he was capable of anymore. It fell over his shoulders, nowhere near as long as Fingon’s but soft and shining and long enough to braid; long enough to hang onto if Fingon was careful not to tug too hard. Fingon purred beneath him and Maedhros bit gently at his skin, tasting his lover’s heartbeat as he started to move his hips in familiar rhythm between Fingon’s thighs.

Maedhros’ hair was unbound now but each morning he would sit dutifully next to Ereinion while Fingon put them into matching plaits, Ereinion’s tolerance of Fingon’s hair regime contingent on watching his father undergo the same. But he was generally a patient child even without Maedhros to model it, and Maedhros would be first to admit he was hardly the best model much of the time and besides -

Fingon’s nails bit into his scalp and Maedhros jerked back so fast that Fingon swore and then looked anxious.

“What is it? Too much - did I pull?”

“No,” said Maedhros, looking over his shoulder as he retreated abruptly. “Was that Ereinion in the hall? Do you think he heard you moaning?”

Fingon made a noise - less a moan than an outraged whistle - and kneed Maedhros in the side. “Will you stop doing that?”

“No. What if he walks in on us and his innocence is ruined?”

“His innocence is as likely to be ruined by watching me _bleed_ as watching us make love.”

“Sometimes that happens too!”

“I meant that you should watch where you stick things when you’re jerking around like a nervous rabbit.” Fingon scowled at him. “I don’t imagine you want our son to hear me cussing at you in pain any more than you want him to hear me moaning in pleasure.”

“And _I’m_ saying that historically those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Are you also saying we shouldn’t have sex until there’s no possibility of us being walked in on?”

Maedhros took too long to answer and Fingon pushed himself upright, looking upset. The carved wooden headboard that had once served to anchor leather restraints now had one of Ereinion’s mobiles dangling from a bracket and Maedhros averted his eyes from it, feeling scandalized. The flickering firelight caught the sweat on Fingon’s skin but Maedhros was paying more attention to the unhappy set of his mouth and the tightness of his jaw. He still didn’t think he was wrong, though, and said so.

Fingon, predictably, didn’t agree. “Of all the things I anticipated being a barrier to our love life, I have to say I never thought this would be one.” His tone was casual enough but Maedhros could see something like panic in his eyes. “What’s next, not kissing me in front of him?”

“Of course not,” said Maedhros at once. Then he considered. “Unless you think - ”

Fingon crossed his arms over his bare chest and looked so annoyed and so beautiful that Maedhros nodded.

“Right. Of course not. Kissing is fine.”

He sat up too and blew his hair out of his face; he had forgotten how inconvenient it was when it wasn’t sheared pragmatically below the ears. He knotted the sheet around his waist and reached for the wine jug, hoping another goblet might lessen the tension suddenly so thick between them.

But the jug was empty - even when he turned it upside down over his tongue - and when he shrugged apologetically at Fingon he found the tension reduced not at all. He set it back down and said, “Look, if we’re going to sit up and talk you should probably put a robe on. For modesty’s sake.”

Fingon grabbed an embroidered throw pillow and hit him in the ear with it. “Modesty? Put on _clothes?_ I can’t believe you, _where is the monster I fell in love with?”_

“You fell in love with a prince,” said Maedhros. “One who was relatively well-behaved and careful not to get walked in on, and who only with time became a debauched and shameless creature of rampant physicality.”

“I love that creature!” Fingon biffed him with the pillow again. “The prince gave me twitchy reflexes and profound insecurity and an anxious cock and honestly I don’t miss those days at all. I’m not going back to that, Maedhros, I _like_ what we have.”

“What we have is a child,” said Maedhros gently. “You know that means making adjustments.”

“The fact that you think I need reminding of that shows me that you are the one being an anxious cock now,” said Fingon. His expression softened and he reached out to stroke Maedhros’ cheek. “Dear heart, it is touching that you worry over our son’s exposure to things he is too young for and value his innocence. It is a sign of your maturity and growth that you understand so completely that becoming parents means making profound changes to routine and expectation, and that we cannot go on as if it is only us two in the world anymore. Not that I think we ever truly did that, though perhaps permanently staining Finrod’s mother’s carpet that he brought from Aman was a thumb over the line into inconsiderate.” Maedhros’ lips twitched and Fingon smiled, watching him. “But just because we have a son now -” He shifted forward, his hand moving down Maedhros’ chest, “ - does not mean -” His mouth was at Maedhros’ ear, his hand sliding beneath the sheet, “- that we cannot still fuck each other blind without worrying about toddling intruders. You know why?”

“Why?” said Maedhros, his hands already cupping Fingon’s buttocks as he lifted him astride his lap.

“Because that door has a _lock_ , idiot.”


	11. Dreams

The fighting was denser here with his people in grave need of reinforcement, and Fingon waded into the thick of it. He sang out the familiar battle cries, his voice rising above the tumult to rally his warriors around him. It was too close quarters for bow and his spear had long since found its home in a warg, but his sword was still eager for the fight.  
  
A snarling creature in black armor lunged for him and he reacted from long instinct, his swordhand finding the gap between its armor and helm almost before his eyes did.

He buried his sword to the hilt.

Black blood gushed forth, covering his hands, and the Orc fell with a howl. As it slumped to the ground, its body shuddering in death, its helmet rolled free.  
  
And Fingon stared into the dying eyes of his son, their obsidian brightness winking out as Fingon's sword pulled free of his soft throat.  


 

* * *

  
  
Maedhros started awake. He no longer kept a knife under the pillow but his instincts were as primed as ever and he came upright with the adrenaline rioting through his veins. There was a keening beside him and that meant Fingon was in agony, Fingon was in pain, Fingon _needed him_.  
  
Blindly he reached for his lover, patting him frantically as the prince sobbed and shook on the pillow.  
  
"Fingon. _Fingon_." Maedhros pulled him into his arms and tried to brush the hair from his face. He wasn't wearing his prosthetic and his wrist collided clumsily with Fingon's cheekbone. "Sweetheart, wake up."  
  
Fingon wrenched his eyes open and clutched at Maedhros' nightshirt. "No," he moaned. "Nooo. I killed him, I _killed him._ "  
  
"It was a dream. Only a dream, hush now."  
  
"A monster! I'm a monster, I slew his family and now - What if I - What if we hadn't found him, what if I came upon him in battle and didn't recognize him - "  
  
"You would always recognize him," said Maedhros, who knew this dream well by now. Fingon had it near weekly these days. "He's our son, he will never be fighting in black armor. You will always know his face."  
  
"His little face!" Fingon moaned again and buried his own face in his hands, tears rolling down his throat and wetting his bare chest. "His little face, all round and perfect, and his bright eyes and his sweet little mouth under that helmet!" He let out a rasping sob and Maedhros pulled him into his lap, rocking him like he would rock Ereinion to sleep.  
  
"A cruel dream," he murmured. "That is all." But he let Fingon weep and shake through it and when his sobs had subsided to shudders, Maedhros released him. He got up and made his way to the anteroom, his nightshirt brushing his ankles. He'd only started wearing one in the days after Ereinion arrived, when nurses and the child were in and out of their room frequently and his usual states in bed - naked or stubbornly in his day clothes - would be remarked upon. Now it was habit.  
  
The boy was asleep in his little bed having graduated with much pride from his crib the month before. Maedhros bent and scooped the small, sleeping form into his arms and carried him back to where Fingon was wiping his eyes with the bed sheet.  
  
"Whole," he said, laying Ereinion into Fingon's arms. "Whole and round and safe and strong." He brushed at the hair that was starting to curl over Ereinion's forehead. "Our son is well and happy and your potato still."  
  
Fingon gave a hiccoughing laugh and tucked Ereinion's head against his breast. More tears were rolling down his cheeks.  
  
"It terrifies me how much I love him," he whispered. "Do all parents feel this way? It is so frightening sometimes I think I will die of it. I haven't been this afraid of how much I love something since..."  
  
"Me too," said Maedhros, and took both husband and child into his arms.


	12. Answers

They'd known it would come up eventually.

Ereinion's playmates were all mortal, sons and daughters of the House of Hador, and had never seen an elven child for comparison. Even if they had, Ereinion's natural charisma, princely status and ability to reduce a rocking horse to splinters with his bare hands had put paid to any questioning.

And so it was Ereinion himself, eight summers old and twice as large and twice as quick as an elven child, that asked. One bright morning, in the midst of his usual torrent of questions - “Are there more leaves in the world or blades of grass?” “What’s a diphthong?” “Why can’t I just have honey cakes for breakfast?” - he said to his fathers, “Why am I an orc?”

They had rehearsed this of course, had lain awake together long into the night debating what to tell him and how to tell it. They were both practiced diplomats, trained rhetoricians, but in that moment Fingon and Maedhros stared at each other across the breakfast table and found themselves at a loss for words.

“You and Da aren’t orcs,” Ereinion went on blithely. “But orcs _are_ made from elves? And I’m not- I _am_ your son but because you found me. Not because of- of swelling rosebuds and stabbing chalices.”

 _“What?”_ The teapot jerked in Fingon’s hand, slopping mint tea all over his toast.

Maedhros slid his own plate out of range of the spreading puddle. “Maglor, no doubt. I shall have words for him next time I see him. Say on, Ereinion.”

“If Da _didn’t_ pollinate the trembling flowers of- of. Then why does he have eyes like mine?”

“You remember when your uncle brought you to see those puppies?” Maedhros said, after sliding the plate of honey cakes closer failed as a distraction. “And you chose Húneth?”

Beneath Ereinion’s chair, Húneth’s ears pricked at the sound of her name, and he leant over to stroke her muzzle and let her lick the honey from his fingers.

It gave Fingon opportunity to kick his husband in the ankle and hiss, “Don’t compare adopting our son to picking out a puppy!”

“I wasn’t. I was going to ask, Ereinion, if you remember everything Celegorm said about bloodlines and whelping.”

“If he said _anything_ to our son about bitc-”

“Some dogs have their ears cropped,” Maedhros said over him, twitching his own in illustration and because it always made Ereinion smile. “Though don’t say that where your uncle can hear unless you want a tirade on the matter. And some dogs are bred so that they are born with their ears the desired shape.”

“Does that work with hands too?” Ereinion said, reaching up to pat his own long, notched ears. “Paws?”

“Hm. Theoretically.” He caught Fingon’s expression. “But that would be a monstrous thing to do to a dog. Why don’t we start with plants? Potatoes even. We’ll have them set aside a patch in the gardens and you can cultivate your own strain-” He backtracked at Ereinion’s deepening frown of confusion. “Make your own family.”

“This has likely just confused him more,” Fingon said softly as Ereinion slurped up the rest of his porridge, snatched up a cake in each clawed hand and scampered off towards the gardens with his puppy at his heels. “But I’m not sure what would be better.” He reached out and laid his hand on Maedhros’ right wrist, thumb skimming gently over the scars and ugly calluses.

“Honesty, eventually. But-”

“But he’s still so small.”

“This might at least forestall the question until he’s a little older. Also the gardeners have been complaining about blight; it’s a chance for him to learn about inheritance, horticulture and seeing to the needs of his people.”

“And not a chance for you to play around in the dirt, growing potatoes without our potato?”

“More than one thing can be true.” Maedhros helped himself to one of the remaining cakes, pushed back his chair and leant over to give Fingon a slightly sticky kiss. “I’d better speak to the head gardener before Ereinion starts uprooting the rosebushes.”


	13. A Better Union

It was the sort of night grown increasingly rare in their lives, one spent entirely on politics and strategy and not even a little on duckies or spidertales or Ereinion’s flourishing tomato crop. They found the old vocabulary of rule strange to their tongues at first, but not in all ways so different from the vocabulary of parenthood. And conversation was turning, perhaps predictably, to disagreement.

“The love I bear you notwithstanding, I trust your brothers about as far as I can throw them.” Fingon took a drink and flexed his fingers around the goblet. “Less.”

“You and I both,” said Maedhros. “But trust that they will obey when I give them a direct command.”

“For someone so cynical, you operate on a lot of blind faith.”

“For someone so noble, you are a jaded old bastard.”

“Only contextually.”

Maedhros shifted forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table. “What of the idealism you once held so dear, what of the future? Think of the world we want to leave for those who come after. Think of the childr-”

“That old chestnut? I cannot believe you are invoking _for_ _the sake of the children_.” Fingon raised his eyebrows in heavy skepticism.

“Why shouldn’t I? It turns out it’s a fair point. The end may be long in the making but I think we should start speaking of this now, while we still can.”

“Maedhros, listen to yourself, this is a tremendous undertaking to propose when our allies - ”

“Since when have you shied from tremendous undertaking, or are you not the man I fell in love with?”

“Don’t,” said Fingon severely, “think to soften me by weaponizing words of love in that hard mouth of yours.”

Maedhros went to nudge his shin with a booted foot, half as a flirt and half as reproach, but his toe met something soft and warm under the table instead. He froze.

“Did you let the cat in?”

“That old bugger? Of course not, I refuse to get fleas again.”

Maedhros bent and saw that what he had encountered was not the mangy feral queen he’d most lately adopted, but a small and slumbering pile of blue robes.

“It’s Ereinion,” he said, and drew his head back above the table. 

Fingon’s face, which had been a mixture of intensity and exasperation, immediately softened. “He’s asleep down there? Oh, the rascal.”

“He’s as good as you at sneaking into places he oughtn’t to be,” said Maedhros, touching a curl of dark hair. Genetics be damned, there were times Ereinion looked so like his father that Maedhros’ heart felt swollen and tight in his chest every time he beheld him. “This one at least I can catch before he jumps off anything high.”

“It doesn’t count if there’s an eagle there to break your fall,” said Fingon and knelt, his arms outstretched. “Here, give him to me and I’ll take him to bed.”

Maedhros didn’t say anything but raised his eyes to Fingon’s, shamelessly importunate. 

Fingon laughed and rolled his eyes and scooped the boy up all at once. He was getting too long and leggy for this to be done easily, but Fingon did it anyway, making the unlikely effortless as he so often did. “You old softy. Fine, he can stay. Do you want to hold him?”

“No,” said Maedhros, his eyes fixed on the tableau of the prince with his crown askew and his braids disordered, their son slumbering at his breast. Each of them had a lock of hair curling loose over their right eyebrows and Maedhros resisted the urge to take both of them into his arms. Instead, he settled back. “Your lap is far more comfortable; the lad deserves to sleep without armor jabbing him in the side.” And watching the two of them would make even a conversation about the end of the world feel gentler.

Fingon smiled at him as if he knew what he was thinking and leaned back in his chair, Ereinion’s head resting against his shoulder. “So,” he said. “About this Union…”

Maedhros changed his mind.

“Forget what I was saying,” he said. “We've had centuries of grim conversation and I am tired of it.”

Fingon arched an eyebrow again. “Light of my life, I was under the impression grim conversation was your preferred aphrodisiac.”

“Hush, you.” Maedhros succeeded in reaching his shin this time and poked it with his toe. “Don't you know that one can never predict how people and fates may change? Now hold still.” The royal portrait still hung in the great hall, but Maedhros had long wanted to improve upon it. Fumbling amongst the papers on the table he seized a scrap of paper and a nub of charcoal and began to sketch.

“What are you doing?”

“Preserving this,” said Maedhros, the lines of his family taking shape beneath his pencil. “For the sake of the children.”


	14. A Better End

It was the worst fight they'd had since they had parted in grief at Alqualondë.

“You, better than anyone, know the evil that could come of this,” Fingon had said, voice tight with fury or with tears.

Maedhros did. And so the meeting place was set well within their own kingdoms with all the soldiers that could be spared about them, and many that could not hidden in ambush.

“You may be mad enough to risk yourself again, but would you risk our son?”

Ereinion, who he loved as much as he loved anything, more than he’d ever thought he’d be able to. Ereinion who spoke to the caterpillars in his little garden, was near a match for an adult Man with claws and wooden swords, and still slept with Wabbit every night despite pretending he was too old. Ereinion who, if the Union failed, would die or be enslaved with every other child within their failing realms.

“Please, don’t take him,” Fingon had said at the last, when all reason had failed, when the plans were laid in full and the horses stood tacked up and steaming in the yard. “I can't lose you both.”

“They hate us, Fingon. Near as much as they fear us. I don’t think anyone but Ereinion can persuade them.”

“He’s a _child_ ,” Fingon said, which was true by the standards of the Eldar. But Ereinion was near as tall as Fingon now and, though they’d shielded him where they could, knew more than a little of war. Knew about the refugees in the city beneath the palace - how not when he brought his own crops down to feed them? Knew what had become of his grandfather, if not the hideous details. Knew his father did not expect this of him, but had insisted anyway. Maedhros did not have to say it; Fingon drew a harsh, rasping breath. “I could order you kept here until you see some bloody sense.”

“You could,” Maedhros agreed. “I almost wish you would, but-”

“But we’re going to help people,” said Ereinion, sitting proudly upon his pony. “That’s what kings do. And princes.”

“It is,” said Fingon and bowed his great head in grief and in defeat. He was too wise, though, to let what might be their last parting be a bitter one, and covered Ereinion’s face in kisses and held Maedhros to him so tightly that he feared for his ribs.

The weather, in stark contrast to the mood of the company save Ereinion, was fine. The sun shone and summer butterflies and bees danced in the heather beneath their horses hooves. Maedhros wished Ereinion were still small enough to ride before him, where he could shield him and hold him tight against the growing fear, coiling like snakes in his gut. Where had all his certainty gone?

The orcs were there before them.

Barren Nevrast had few trees and those there were had been felled and set to make watchfires and crude palisades. Tents of stretched hide in military formation, and guards patrolling all about, not keen-eyed as elven soldiers but alert enough that the camp was all alert long before they drew up at its gates.

There were skulls spiked atop them but Maedhros judged from how they’d bleached that they were long years old - taken in the Bragollach perhaps. He gripped the reins so tightly his horse bridled, and clenched his jaw against the urge to draw his sword and order them all dead. But Ereinion was here with him, and fortunately more interested in the orcs stood upon the battlements than the heads that chattered their jawbones in the breeze.

Instead Maedhros sent his herald forwards, offered Ereinion his brightest smile and what words of encouragement he could, and waited with good grace as the orcish delegation slunk down the muddy slope to treat.

Their leader was near as tall as he and thrice as wide. Her breastplate was an ancient thing, wrought of blackened iron but the elegant scrollwork still visible beneath the rust said it was not of orcish make. “Balcmeg is I,” she said. “And these my girls and boys. No need for other introductions; our Master still remembers you.”

Maedhros forced himself to laugh. “I suppose I’m flattered. I’d have thought that he had better things to do than dwell on his past failures.”

“Failure? Took you, didn’t he?”

“And yet here I stand. His reach is not as long as he would like us to believe.”

“Longer than yours, Elf,” she said with a pointed look. “What can you offer us the Lord of all of Arda can’t?”

“Respect,” he said, switching from the Sindarin they’d been speaking to tongue the Enemy had given her. The words dropped from his tongue like maggots from a corpse and several of his escort flinched. Ereinion, who had not heard it spoken outside his lessons, pricked up his ears. “Freedom. But if you want something more tangible, self-governance and trade. What do you hope for? Something, surely, or you would not have risked this meeting.”

“Perhaps we just wanted a laugh,” she answered in the Black Speech. Some of her soldiers did laugh but it sounded more dutiful than humorous.

“An awful lot of trouble to go to,” he said. They _wanted_ to be bought, he was certain of it now. Under the bravado there was something hungry in her eyes. “You are a captain under Fuithluin, yes? Strong and clever then, to have risen so high, but where will you go from there? His greatest servants - and even they are servants - are balrogs and vampires and always you will be less than they. Fight with us and you shall have an equal say in our alliance, and a kingdom to rule after. You could be a queen.”

“Think we’ll take your word for that?” she snarled as though her eyes had not lit at his words. “You Elf-dogs hate us. You’d kill us all if you could.”

“Don’t take my word,” said Maedhros, as though he were not infamous for the keeping of it. “It’s Ereinion that shall be king when all is settled.”

“We heard stories ‘bout your pet.”

“My son.”

“You steal our children and raise them weak and stupid. Think we’ll thank you for it?”

“You ought to. Just as we should thank you; Ereinion was born strong and clever and we’ve raised him to be more so.” While he would bear insults to himself with equanimity, no one spoke so of his son and he had to bite his tongue against the urge to say something vastly less diplomatic. “Ereinion?”

Ereinion put his heels to his pony and trotted forwards. “It’s like D- like Father says. We honour our agreements. I’ll see that you’re granted the lands that you deserve when I am king, and a seat upon my council.” For all his wariness, Maedhros had kept one eye upon Ereinion throughout the conversation and seen his avid curiosity. These were the first orcs he had seen and, though Maedhros had prepared him as best he could, there had always been the worry he would be frightened, disgusted or - and Maedhros was ashamed of this - feel some sense of rightness and recognition.

He should not have feared. Ereinion considered Blacmeg, dark eyes serious and then added, “What do the marks mean on your arms? Da told me it was clan affiliations but he doesn’t know them all. I like the swirly one best.”

“Not just clans,” she said gruffly. “Any great deeds, we make these.” She tapped the spirals of scarification upon her bicep. “Drowned one of your captains in the river, didn’t I? With my own bare hands. Held her under till she stopped kicking and went limp as a fishie. What do you think of that, Elfling?”

“It sounds inefficient,” said Ereinion, in what Maedhros recognised as a cold echo of his own voice. “Were there no stones about?”

Blacmeg threw back her head and laughed. “Mayhaps you have a spine after all. Mayhaps we can deal with you.”

 

* * *

 

When the negotiations were done for the day and they were behind the safety of their own defenses, when he had thrown up behind the latrines and waited until the shaking had left his hand, Maedhros found Ereinion in their pavilion, halfway through his second roasted chicken.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said. It was insufficient and, though Ereinion was really both too old for it and too large, Maedhros drew him into his lap. “You shouldn’t have heard that. You shouldn’t have to be here.”

Ereinion squirmed a little but, increasing size and advancing age not withstanding, made no effort to escape the embrace. “I’m _not_ weak or stupid, Da. I know there’s a war on, and this is going to stop it. And even if it doesn’t, it’s the right thing to do.”

“It is,” Maedhros agreed, stroking his son’s dark hair, feeling the knots of the braids that Fingon had placed there. He put more faith in Ereinion’s certainty than his own. What could a father hope for but to raise a better man than he was? “Do you want to write to your Papa? I’m going to dispatch a bird with the news.” _That we are alive and safe despite my foolishness. And_ , he reminded himself, _that we have the alliance we need._

“Yes!” Ereinion cried and scrambled from his lap to find his pens. “Was this a great deed?” he asked, pressing his inkstick to the stone with so much enthusiasm Maedhros feared that it would break.

“Very great. You were clever, quick tongued and brave beyond all measure.”

“So,” said Ereinion, the diplomacy replaced with childish slyness. “Can I have the tattoo of it?”

Maedhros swallowed. “Ask your father.”


End file.
